


Seating Arrangements

by AnnaBolena



Series: These Years Spent in Paris [7]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Bahorel punches someone aftermath, Boys In Love, Canon-Era, Celebrations, July 1830, Les Amis de l'ABC Shenanigans, M/M, Pre-Canon, Trans Enjolras, fun times @ café musain, soft because that is what i felt like today
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 10:50:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18658939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena
Summary: “Enjolras has decided to take drinks with us in celebration tonight!” Bahorel’s voice booms across the room. One of his hulking arms is wrapped securely around the girl tending to him, the other is raised in victory.“Lest Bahorel give anyone a false impression: Enjolras was persuaded with great industry to take a single cup, that is all. No need to make a spectacle of it,” Feuilly placates those already cheering, though no one's joy is truly tempered by the revelation.a.k.a. Enjolras celebrates with his friends :)





	Seating Arrangements

**Author's Note:**

> @Shitpostingfromthebarricade gave a prompt - I delivered, along with (hopefully) many others. Go check out the Collection to see what others came up with!

**Late afternoon, 1st of August, 1830 - Paris, France**

Grantaire has already been in the Musain with L’Aigle and Joly for some hours, enjoying oysters and jokes alike, when Enjolras enters, flanked bei Feuilly and Bahorel. The largest man of the three sports a gash upon his brow, thin rivulets of blood run down his temple in small pulses. A few flecks more have stained a shirt Grantaire knows to be new and not of little worth, ordered not two months ago, but the man seems to be in good spirits nonetheless. Surely the state of him will not go uncommented among their ranks? Already, Bahorel’s favorite of the Musain's girls rushes towards him with a damp rag, fussing over him, her hand upon his brow tender and her eyes full of warm concern. Bahorel, Grantaire can say as much with certainty, is enjoying her attentions. All three men seem to be enjoying themselves, though Enjolras does so with some reservation. The smile around his lips is careful, almost hesitant, as though he is not quite sure how to properly arrange his face into one more true, while in the company of so many.

If Grantaire had never seen the man’s joyous smile for himself, he would have been quite dismissive of the possibility that it should exist.

“Enjolras has decided to take drinks with us in celebration tonight!” Bahorel’s voice booms across the room. One of his hulking arms is wrapped securely around the girl tending to him, the other is raised in victory.

“Lest Bahorel give anyone a false impression: Enjolras was persuaded with great industry to take a single cup, that is all. No need to make a spectacle of it,” Feuilly placates those already cheering, though no one's joy is truly tempered by the revelation.

“What happy occasion has caused this?” L’Aigle needles.

“Perhaps he drinks because his charming mistress has seen fit to open her legs for him at last! Or better yet, her heart,” Joly laughs as he beckons Enjolras closer. “How fares fair Patria today, Enjolras? Are her spirits comparable to your own?”

“We have heard news that our friends on the streets have been more successful than anyone could have anticipated, a week ago,” Enjolras muses. “I imagine Patria to be as fervent in her hopes for the future as I find myself.”

"As do we all," Feuilly insists, eyes bright.

Certainly, Enjolras must have fervently envisioned that the fighting would lead France's people to success. If Grantaire is any judge of character, the man is already hoping for parliaments, chosen by the people, to be set up in the coming days, hoping for a republic to follow the impending abdication, hoping for a country in which fairness and equality rule side by side. Grantaire is not sure that will come to be. Tonight though, Enjolras deserves to celebrate, deserves to believe that his struggles have not been entirely in vain. The harsh fall back to where reality rules the wretched will come soon enough, Grantaire need not hasten the arrival. And, to be entirely truthful, he is open to surprises, if it should turn out that Enjolras’ hopes are not misplaced.  

“And how, pray tell, does this joyous occasion correlate with Bahorel’s battle wounds?”

“He was so dazed he walked into a tree!” L’Aigle suggests. Feuilly chuckles as he pulls up a chair to Grantaire’s right.

“A tree? In Paris’ streets? No, more likely his opponent was a formidable lamp post, one of great caliber, intimidating to any man but him, for he conquered the beast in the end and now bears the scars to prove it!” Joly dismisses L'Aigle's words, forming a hypothesis of his own.  

“Gentlemen, I believe you both have it wrong,” Grantaire grins, “Naturally, when he heard the good tidings of the street, he punched some swine, in all likelihood a royalist. I wager a bottle of this establishment’s finest wine on my being right.”

“You have not the money in your pocket to risk making such a wager,” Courfeyrac teases, clapping him on the shoulder as he arrives, taking his top hat off with a flourish and fishing two francs from his coat pocket. “My money towards Bahorel having injured himself in the attempt of dressing in his unfathomably tight pants!”

He slams the coins onto the table, producing more laughter.

“As though your own sit more loosely on your hips!” Bahorel calls out in response.

“I do not force what will not go, Monsieur,” Courfeyrac teases, “Your own behind seems to live by a different philosophy.”

Courfeyrac’s cheeks are flushed, likely he walked here with some haste to bring further good tidings, which he whispers swiftly into Enjolras’ ear. A look of utter content comes over the man. Grantaire can only watch and attempt to still his rapidly beating heart. The last few days have been full of joyous news, it would seem. How is it that Grantaire had not found any himself? Courfeyrac turns to Joly. “And where are you hiding your colleague? Was he not in to visit the morgue with you today?”

“He was, for a time. Having satisfactorily schooled a first year on the correct anatomy of the heart, Combeferre elected to go on a walk with his landlady, a different matter of the heart, it would appear,” Joly shrugs, “Apparently Madame is with child now.”

“Is her husband not thrice our age? I dare say it is quite a feat for a man to stand proudly erect yet with so many years on his back,” Bahorel whistles slowly, pulling his mademoiselle closer and tickling her. Her laugh rings loud in the café.

“Perhaps he has found a mistress in her. Trust Combeferre not to make gossip of such matters,” L’Aigle grins, distributing cups to those newly arrived.  

“She is no such thing, I assure you,” Courfeyrac shakes his head, turning rather more serious. “Trust Combeferre rather to be one of the few men who would wait to be joined in matrimony before ever taking pleasure in a woman. As it happens, the madame in question is rather too honorable to deceive even a husband as old and possibly senile as her’s. Though perhaps they ought to apply to the church to have the miracle in her womb formally recognized.”

The table erupts into laughter, jokes are made of which Grantaire does not hear all.

“Come now, Bahorel!” Courfeyrac calls out to the man, “How did you happen to be injured? We are all quite curious!”

“At the edge of our seats!”

“Shaking with anticipation!”

“It is as Grantaire supposed,” Bahorel boasts, “That my opponent was human in corpus, though beastly in character. Not a royalist to my knowledge, but I would not put it past the brute! He beset a young grisette quite intently and I could do naught but intercede.”

“Aha! Grantaire is thus owed a bottle!” Joly decides. "Money well-risked and wine well-earned!"

“I do not recall having consented to his wager!” L’Aigle protests, but produces a handful of small coins nonetheless, without hesitation.

“I graciously accept, though I believe I have had my fill for today,” Grantaire waves the offer away, “Let it go towards the good cause of intoxicating those that still remain sober and call it a step towards utopian living, if you are so inclined. I am off to take a piss.”

He hears a cacophony of confused voices, one supposition chasing the next as to his reasoning for stopping at a reasonable amount of drink, but nevertheless he leaves to relieve himself, not engaging in their repartée. If Enjolras is going to be plunged as thoroughly into the depths of the bottle as he expects of their friends, it would do well for Grantaire to sober up some more before the evening grows late. At least one of them ought to have his wits about him. He cannot imagine tonight will be peaceful if they are both overly indulgent.

When he returns to the table he finds quite a wondrous scene before him. Enjolras is sampling from Courfeyrac’s cup, his waistcoat and cravat still impeccably tied but his summer coat removed, hanging over the back of his chair. His upper lip curls in distaste, the tableau is resplendent.

“That cannot be wine,” he protests vehemently. “I swear it upon my life. I know you think me to be entirely unpracticed with the bottle, but I assure you, Courfeyrac, I _have_ tasted it before.”

“Quite right, my friend. ‘Tis absinthe you have gorged on just now - the cynic’s favored poison, not wine, though for tonight it serves us hopefuls just as well,” Courfeyrac’s hands are bearing down on his shoulders, kneading tense flesh with intent, as though the prospect of tonight’s impending glee justifies any steps necessary so that Enjolras is beguiled to unwind, to allow the evening to take whichever course the Fates have in store. Perhaps it is truly that everyone expects the greatest of things from Enjolras, uninhibited - the sheer novelty of it is astounding enough to warrant Attention, or perhaps the mood of the streets is simply too infectious to resist joining in the celebrations.    

“I consented to wine, nothing more, Courfeyrac. Do not make me regret my words.”

“I beg your pardon - did I, while somehow missing it, force the absinthe down your throat? Were my hands acting of their own accord? Or was it not you who snatched the cup from my grasp, heedless of warning? If I did not know you so well I might guess you eager to imbibe.”

“Hardly,” Enjolras snorts, though his eyes lack their customary sternness.

“Have a cup,” Feuilly offers him a second one, presumably containing the wine originally consented to, for the man would not dare resort to trickery under these friendly circumstances. In turn Feuilly is given a grateful nod, once Enjolras has tried his offering and found it to be satisfactory.

“To France!”

The toast is echoed by most in the room.

“To freedom!” Courfeyrac announces.

“To the future!” Feuilly throws in.

“Yes, yes,” Bahorel laughs, “That is quite enough, let us drink!”

By the time Combeferre arrives - ducking swiftly into the room, on account of both his height and tardiness - Enjolras has finished off two cups and is making steady progress on his third. They shake hands amiably before Combeferre approaches Courfeyrac, accepting a cup of what Grantaire would wager to be water. It seems to Grantaire that they have a great many things to discuss, for they disappear into the back room, only to emerge a quarter of an hour later, looking less anxious and rather more relaxed.

The room continues to match them as wine flows freely.

+

It has gone past the 11th hour when Courfeyrac and Combeferre leave at last, arm in arm. Combeferre has confiscated Courfeyrac’s hat, placing it upon his own head, to Courfeyrac’s endless amusement. Grantaire hopes that, come tomorrow, it will be hidden in a well chosen spot, for it truly is an eyesore, and he knows how much Combeferre sighs over Courfeyrac’s irrational fondness of the horrid garment. Two weeks or so without it would offer all of them some necessary respite.

“Grantaire is that you I still see, sitting across the room?” Enjolras wonders, turning towards him after watching all their friends turn in for night. They are alone in the room now. He wonders if Enjolras has realized.

When Grantaire confirms it, Enjolras makes his way over to him. Grantaire would not call it stumbling, for the man retains an astounding amount of gracefulness even while horridly drunk, but it is not the straight-backed stride they know of him. It is still quite commanding, so Grantaire watches the man approach, his eyes roving from one shoulder to the other, down Enjolras’ unfairly long legs,  boot-clad today.

“You have hardly made yourself heard tonight,” Enjolras comments, draping himself across the table artfully, his boot nudging one of Grantaire’s. His arms cross, and in his eyes Grantaire sees a challenge. “I found that to be most uncommon for you.”

“The mood was so boisterous that I did not wish to spoil it. You especially seem set ablaze by hope tonight, though I find that to be most common for you.”

“Has an awareness that you may spoil a mood ever stopped you from doing so before?”

“I suppose it has not, or if it has, it has done so very rarely” Grantaire shrugs. “But I had my fill of amusement for the night, watching you laugh and drink to France’s prosperity. It was quite worth the price of holding my tongue. You are a sight when you are stirred by passion, I have told you so often enough that you have grown tired of hearing it.”

Enjolras hums. Slowly, he pushes off the table. His hands wrap around the armrests of Grantaire’s chair his body leans towards him. He bends his head so that their eyes are level, looking at Grantaire intently. The sudden increase in proximity is thrilling, Grantaire cannot deny it.

“Not quite tired of it yet, nor of you, Grantaire. I feel as though I have not seen you in weeks.”

“Two of them; you are right. I have been away from Île de la cité, as I told you I would be.”

“I wrote to you.”

“So you did. Upon hearing you speak of violence in the streets I left my darling aunt to rush straight back into Paris from her far outskirts, though by then the fighting was almost over. I had expected the abdication of a king to require more heroics. History would have you believe the effort to be almost untenable, yet all I saw of France’s young heroes was a man draped with an ornamental curtain, insisting on holding court in Madame Berry’s finest frock, and some more to cheer him on in making a thorough mockery of himself, if you would believe it. I believe they drank most of Charles’ wine and called themselves content. Would you say you are content, Enjolras?”

Once more Enjolras hums. His blue eyes narrow at Grantaire. The man does not break eye contact, he is unrelenting.

“Not entirely.”

“What do you find lacking? Has tonight not been grand? Have you not enjoyed yourself?”

“Of course I enjoyed myself. But I wished to speak with you tonight,” Enjolras admits, “I always wish it.”

“You are afforded the opportunity to do so at this very moment.”

Another hum, this time it sounds almost as though the man is planning something. The fruit of his devious scheming is revealed when he promptly makes a seat of Grantaire’s lap. His hands leave their posts on the armrests to trail up Grantaire’s arms, where his shirtsleeves have been rolled up in the summer heat, coming to rest on his shoulders. Long, delicate fingers delve into his hair. Enjolras looks truly serene now, his own hair having come mostly undone over the course of the evening. He is a vision. Sometimes Grantaire wonders how he has not gone blind from illicitly beholding such divinity. When he voices such thoughts, however, he is swiftly disillusioned by Enjolras rolling his eyes, or else castigating him for distracting the man from whichever notions they had previously been debating.

“Is this how you habitually converse with men you have not seen in some time? Perhaps I ought to make a rarity of my presence more often.”

“Please do not,” Enjolras shakes his head, coming dangerously close to losing the ribbon that previously held his queue together entirely. Grantaire fishes it from golden curls and places it into his pocket for safekeeping.

“I have missed you,” Enjolras admits, connecting their foreheads tenderly, sharing breath. The wine is sour in the air between them. Grantaire wonders if Enjolras still smells oysters on him, wonders how often Enjolras tastes wine on his lips and dislikes it. He does not mind it on Enjolras at all, rather wishes he could chase it, catch it with his tongue and perhaps grow drunk simply on that.  “I have missed your rambling and your arguments as well, if I am honest with myself. All of you has been missed.”

“And so you sought to emulate my debauchery tonight? Enjolras, you are out of sorts, and I would remind you that we are in a public place.”

“Slightly out of sorts, yes,” Enjolras agrees. “Earlier the room had spun, but I feel rather more steady in your arms.”

He pauses, hiccuping a little then covering his mouth so that Grantaire may not hear his laughter. Grantaire hears anyway. He is certain his own face must reveal happiness rather clearly. Enjolras frowns more than he smiles and smiles more than he laughs, but to hear him do it is to know what the choirs of heaven sing.

“I wish I could have had your arms around me for all of tonight,” Enjolras whispers, pressing closer to Grantaire, revealing different, simultaneously less and more agreeable intentions. If they were not in a café, Grantaire might tighten his grip on the man’s waist more, might push upwards, might set about loosening the laces of Enjolras’ pants -- But no, even in private rooms, he would not dare. The man is absent sense, tonight.

“Take me home, Grantaire, would you? The wine has made my heart light but my head so very heavy.”

Yes, of course! What Enjolras needs now is rest, a chance to sleep off the haze and regain the clear head he usually carries with great dignity upon his shoulders.

“I imagine so,” Grantaire rubs at the man’s temple, playing with the curls he so adores. “Today was consistently filled with sunshine, and if Bahorel is to be believed you have been in the heat for most of the day, all the while so tightly bound beneath your shirt. It is high time to offer your body some relief.”

“The bindings are not entirely unbearable yet,” Enjolras stifles a yawn into Grantaire’s neck. “But I would wish to remove them nonetheless.”

“I am, as always, at your service - so we will make for your lodgings. But you must first remove yourself from my lap.”

“Impossible.” Enjolras shakes his head, rubs his nose into Grantaire’s beard. “My body is too heavy. I cannot lift myself, much less move from my current position. I must remain where I am.”

He exhales against Grantaire’s skin, laughing silently. Grantaire knows when he is being teased - Enjolras manages it well when the mood takes him. Occasionally the man is not at all above jokes. Grantaire treasures every single one of such moments.

“Really now?”

“Yes. I am afraid you will have to carry me,” Enjolras sighs, as though the thought of it were some hardship.

“Easily done, if you insist upon it, though not at all inconspicuous.”

“What do I care?”

Grantaire gets the sense that Enjolras is smelling him. He cannot imagine that after spending most of the day in the Musain there is anything pleasant about his odor, but the man burrows into him deeper still, inhaling before exhaling loudly.

“Appearances must be kept, must they not?”

Despite his words, Grantaire wonders if he could do it - wrap Enjolras  up in his arms and simply abscond into the night, leave Paris, leave France to live safely in some remote village of Spain. If he lets his thoughts run wild, that is where they end up. Together. It is ludicrous, of course, but the dreams are sustained all the more when the man presents himself as affectionately as he does tonight. It gives Grantaire the impression that perhaps Enjolras cares a great deal more about him than he would otherwise admit.

That is not to say the man is cold to him. In the years since they met Grantaire has learned to decipher the meaning to Enjolras’ chastisements and his odd tones of voice, though it required some time to learn him well. Grantaire thinks Enjolras is not at all indifferent to him. How could he be, after carrying on with him for so many years? But still - occasionally such thoughts plague him, thoughts that what Enjolras feels is not enough, can never be enough, when compared to his ambitions for mankind. Enjolras would not give up Paris, or France, if Grantaire asked him. Not for the sake of his young life, much less their shared life.

Grantaire does not feel bitterness towards Enjolras, he cannot. To know as much of him as he does is already an honor he feels undeserving of.

“I cannot say I much care for appearances at the moment.”

“Not right now, yes. I do not doubt it. Your care will return in time, along with your sobriety.”

“I am not so drunk as you might imagine me to be - it has been hours since I emptied my last cup. My mind is not so addled that I know not what I want, and it is this: I do not wish to leave your arms.”

“Might I offer you a compromise? If your legs are too heavy I will gladly offer you my arm as support.”

Enjolras leans back in his lap, smiling at him fondly.

“Very well. Lead us home, Grantaire.”

**Author's Note:**

> \-- and then came Louis-Philippe, and Grantaire was right: Things were still bad. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, do please come say hi on [Tumblr](http://www.annabrolena.tumblr.com)


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